


did you know my baby loves me?

by portraitofemmy



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Birthday Sex, Bottom Eliot Waugh, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Season/Series 04, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Recovery, Support Groups, Switching, Top Quentin Coldwater, post-resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-06 00:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21217337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: “Would you fuck me?”Quentin blinks, clearly a little surprised. “I– yes? If you want that. I mean, yes, of course, I’d love to.”It's Eliot's birthday and Quentin makes an evening of it, then gives him what he asks for.





	did you know my baby loves me?

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) for the patience and encouragement and also for beta reading this. Shout out also to [ propinquitous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous) for organizing this birthday celebration and also for cheerleading me along the way.

“Are we doing anything special for your birthday?”

Sunlight filters through the big bay windows of the small Brooklyn apartment, drenching them both in welcome warmth, fighting against the mid-October chill. The apartment is small but its theirs, a little two bedroom with just enough space for the two of them. The second bedroom is Quentin’s in name and decoration only, his space to retreat to when he can’t sleep or needs some time to himself. Margo sleeps in it more often than Quentin does.

The apartment had been a haven for them, in the weeks after Eliot and Margo and Julia and Alice had crawled into the underworld with nothing besides their determination to bring Quentin back and tolls for the gatekeepers. Quentin, already easily overwhelmed by crowds even when not attempting to process the meaning of life and death and rebirth, had found staying in the penthouse virtually impossible. So they’d sought their own shelter, and Margo had followed. But she’d returned to Fillory before too long, and then it was just- the two of them, trying to figure out how to put the pieces of themselves back together. 

That meant therapy and meds for Quentin, and it meant PT and a narcotics support group for Eliot, and a lot of _work. _So much fucking work, to get through all of the _mess_ they’d broken between them. It was exhausting. It was worth it.

It’s the best thing Eliot’s ever done. 

It also means that afternoons like this, just their skin and the sunlight and blankets and soft sheets and pillows and the shadows in Quentin’s dimples, can be justified in the name of _recovery._ Maybe Quentin should be doing homework and Eliot should be doing Fillory shit, but– relearning each other has been their top priority for the last couple months, and for once everyone (including Quentin’s therapist) seems to be on board with that.

Quentin’s skin is golden in the autumn sunlight, marred only by the lines of the tattoo in the center of his back. His body had been remade, whole and unscarred with two shoulders made of flesh rather than one of living wood, upon his return from the underworld. The tattoo had remained, however, and Eliot wonders sometimes if that was Quentin’s choice. Something he picked consciously. 

Someday he’ll ask. But not today.

Instead he kisses Quentin’s very real, living human shoulder, tastes the warmth of his skin. A little sharp with salt from dried sweat. “It’s my birthday,” Eliot replies, lips brushing softly against Quentin’s skin. It makes Quentin shiver, which in turn makes Eliot want to _crawl inside him_, like he wasn’t just there, buried to the hilt in Quentin’s tight, warm, sweet little body. “I sure hope it’s going to be special.” 

Q snorts, which does interesting things to the muscles on his back. Eliot flattens his palm there, rubbing up and down the exposed planes of skin. All of Quentin was leaner and stronger than you’d expect if you’re used to seeing him in his 37 layers of clothing, but somehow his back is more so. Maybe from carting around stacks of books his whole life.

“There will probably be a party,” Eliot continues, rolling with a sigh and settling down onto his back so he can see Quentins face, cast in shadow by his hair. It was slightly longer now than it had been when he’s stepped back into the living world. Shorter, still, than it had been most of the time Eliot’s known him, but growing. Alive. Eliot reaches up to tuck it back behind his ear, brush the soft skin there until Quentin smiles at him. 

“I wasn’t sure, since half your friends are sober, now.” He sounds thoughtful, taking Eliot’s free hand in his. Propped up on his elbows like this, he can still tangle his fingers through Eliot’s, play with the rings. Rub his thumb into the center of Eliot’s palm.

“Some of them still drink,” Eliot sighs, relaxing into Quentin’s attention, his care, his clever hands. “_I_ still drink. It’s... different. Alcohol and the other stuff.”

“You’ve said,” Quentin agrees, and there’s a little pinch to his voice, a little worry. They’ve fought about this, before, more than once.

_Fuck me for wanting to keep you alive,_ Quentin had yelled, as Eliot’s body shook and shook and shook as he lost the last of the shit the monster had put into it. 

_Because being alive is something you're so good at_, Eliot had snapped back, and regretted it immediately. 

“I drink less,” Eliot points out, a little surly, because well, he fucking _does_ drink less. He’s down to maybe 7 drinks a week, which is a _big_ step back for him. Having a glass of wine with dinner is wildly different than putting shots of whiskey in your morning coffee, thank you very much. 

“I know you do.” Quentin’s voice is quiet, thick with some feeling Eliot can't name. Quentin feels _so much_, all the time, Eliot can barely keep up with how he’s feeling himself, much less all of the things running through Quentin’s dear, fast, overactive brain. “I’m proud of you.”

From anyone else in the fucking _world_, it would feel condicending, get Eliot’s hackles. But Quentin means it with a sincerity that Eliot almost can’t comprehend. How the fuck is he supposed to handle someone being _proud_ of him. He squeezes his fingers tightly in Quentin’s instead, trying to communicate through touch all the things he still struggles to say aloud. _I love you. Thank you for helping me untangle my mess. I can’t believe you love me too, please don’t ever, ever stop._

“Anyway, there’s probably going to be a party. Though that might end up being on Halloween, since that’s closer to Friday, and somehow most of the people we know have jobs?”

“You have a job,” Quentin points out, sucking a kiss into the center of Eliot’s palm. “It may be a weird job for a fantasy land, but it’s a job.”

“Ugh,” Eliot groans, because, well. _Ugh_. Fillorian Interplanetary Liaison basically meant ‘help the Joint High Kings of Fillory slowly integrate into the rest of the universe’ but it was, in fact, a job. 

“So what are we doing on your actual birthday,” Quentin asks, eyes sparkling in a way that makes a responding excitement dance in Eliot stomach. Oh yeah, they’re definitely going to fuck again before dinner tonight. 

“I don’t fucking know, Q. We haven’t even agreed on Halloween costumes yet,” Eliot points out. They’ve been going back and forth on the merits of couples costumes since the beginning of October. Quentin cares way too much about authenticity and originality in his costume choices, and Eliot just wants them both to look hot.

“I still think we should do Han Solo and Luke Skywalker,” Quentin says, pouting a little. 

“Quentin,” Eliot says patiently, “You can dress me up for your nerd fantasy any other night of the year. I’m not spending Halloween wearing that many clothes.”

“You wanted to be a vampire!” The indignation in Quentin’s voice makes Eliot grin, feeling incredible warm and fond, as if the sunlight had seeped right into his bones. “How is that _less clothes_.”

“I wanted to be a _Slutty_ Vampire. Half the point of that would be to wear a mostly transparent, entirely unbuttoned shirt.” The way Quentin’s eyes flick down to Eliot’s neck then drag down his chest is incredibly gratifying. “I think I could be a really sexy slutty vampire,” Eliot muses, and Quentin grins, tucking his smile into the palm of his hand. 

“I’m not sure that’s as much a sexy fun role play scenario once you know that vampires actually exist,” he mumbles into his hand. Eliot feels a rush of fondness so strong it nearly steals his breath. “Though, you do have a pretty neck.” 

“Yeah?” Eliot preens, stretching a little. Fucking sue him, he does have a nice neck, okay. Why else would he wear ties and cravats so much? You needed presence to carry that sort of thing. Q reaches out with his free hand, fingers trailing across the front of Eliot’s throat, bumping into his adam’s apple, and Eliot shivers a little. He’s been turning himself on with touching Q’s bare skin for nearly 30 minutes now, but even if he hadn’t been, Quentin’s touch just _does_ things to him.

“What about your birthday though? There’s gotta be something you want,” Q muses, fingers sliding down to pet between Eliot’s collarbones, then down further to tangle in the hair on his chest. _Why do you love that so much? _It’s another thing Eliot’s wondered before, but hasn’t gotten around to asking yet. Sometimes it was nice to be appreciated without knowing the why of it.

“There’s a lot of things I want,” Eliot agrees, hooking his finger into Quentin’s soft hair, curling it around his ear. The bizzare thing is that he can _have_ most of the things he wants, these days. “Are you asking for a fantasy you can give me?”

“Pretty much.” Quentin blushes as he says it, and it’s so cute Eliot pushes up to kiss the tip of his nose, utterly taken. “I mean, I’m– It’s your birthday? And we didn’t do much for mine, what with– just recently not being dead, but that’s fine. It’s _me_, I’d genuinely _prefer_ to not make a fuss anyway, but. ‘Make a fuss’ is kind of your brand. I can’t give you like– Ibiza level sex, but I can– I don’t know. Try to make it special.”

Eliot’s heart does something funny, like it’s trying to contract and climb up his throat all at once. “Q,” he murmurs, “The sex I have with you is already so much more special than anything I’ve ever– magic induced orgies are fun, honey, but like every drug in the world you pay for it after. And besides, of the, what, top ten orgasms of my life? Seven have been with you and two were solo ventures.”

“Oh,” Quentin breathes, looking a little stunned then a spark of mischief catches in his eye. “What’s the last one?”

“Okay, the last one was with an incubus, but that’s not _fair_ to compare to, so.”

Q starts to giggle, face dropping off his hand to bury in Eliot’s chest. “Yeah, okay, I won’t hold myself to that standard.” Warm all the way down to his toes, Eliot rolls onto his side, wrapping around Quentin with arms and legs and mind and heart. “But I can still try to make it special. What’s something you want?”

Something he wants. God, so many things. Everything, really, everything they could have and do and share together. Corsets, stockings, ropes and ties. Roles to play and rules to set. Other men shared between them, _women_ shared between them. So many things, but... all of those are things Eliot would enjoy, but none of them are something he wants in the way Quentin’s asking for. Quentin, watching him attentively, so fucking lovely. This close, Eliot can see the individual hairs in his beard scruff, could count his beautiful eyelashes. 

“Would you fuck me?”

Q blinks, clearly a little surprised. “I– yes? If you want that. I mean, yes, of course, I’d love to. But it didn’t seem like you– and I love it the other way so it’s not– but if you want to, I can?”

He’s stumbling all over himself, and Eliot smiles fondly, lets him trip around for a few breaths. Then Eliot noses in to kiss him quiet, cut off the frantic spiral before he loses control of it. “I have a lot of fantasies I’d love to share with you,” Eliot tells him, brushing their noses together. “Some of them are more fun in fantasy than they would be in reality, and even those I’d love to tell you about. But if you want something that’s going to make me feel special, and spoiled, and cared for... it’ll be that.”

“Okay,” Q agrees, still looking a little stunned. “Then we’ll do that.”

It’s hard, now that the idea is in his mind, to let go of wanting that immediately, _now_. It’s been, god, _years_ since Eliot got fucked. Since undergrad, really, with an older boy he’d been half in love with. Half, because half of it had probably just been the drugs. Even Mike, as desperately as Eliot had wanted to love him, had never pushed through that particular barrier. _At least I didn’t let the Beast fuck me_ had been a measly comfort, in the wake of the tidal wave of _bad_ which marked the end of Eliot’s career as a grad student. 

“You’re far away,” Quentin says softly, touching Eliot’s temple, fingers sliding gently into the curls there.

“Sorry,” Eliot replies on auto-pilot, then, because part of the shit they talk about in Group is that apologies don’t mean anything unless both of you know what you’re apologizing for, says “I was thinking about the last time– I had that. The last time someone fucked me. It’s been... ha, a while. I’m sorry for getting lost in memories. I’m here with you, I promise.”

Quentin’s brow pinches, furrowed and thoughtful, and Eliot reaches forward to smooth his thumb over the wrinkles. “Was it– bad? I mean, not good sex?”

“It was fine,” Eliot soothes, stroking Quentin’s skin, up into his hair. Fuck, Eliot’s never liked touching someone so much. “It was good. I liked it, but– It’s just hard, to be that open. I don’t know how you do it.”

Quentin rolls eyes, dismissing his own amazing capacity to be emotionally and physically vulnerable like it was just something everyone could do. Like it was _easy_. “You make it easy. I– like having you inside me. You make it feel– I mean, it feels good, obviously, but it’s just so– safe.” Q flushes, embarrassed, and Eliot just wants to _take care of him_. Forever.

“I want you to feel safe,” Eliot murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of Quentin’s cheek. “I want you to feel good.” Another, to the tip of his nose. “I want you to feel loved.” A final kiss, to the soft, warm, welcoming bow of his smile.

“I do,” Q promises, and Eliot hums, kisses at his soft sweet mouth again, sliding his hand up to cradle the back of Quentin’s neck. Q opens for him, eager and inviting, Jesus, he’s the best, _neediest_ little thing Eliot’s ever had. Eliot loves him like this, open and wanting. _Please don’t think for a moment, my love, that you’re not everything I want exactly as you are_.

If they kiss for another small lifetime, warm and lazy in the autumn sunlight, they’ve got nowhere else to be today. And if Eliot traces his mouth down Q’s thin chest, kisses and bites at his ribs and pecs and tiny tight little nipples until he’s gasping, it’s nobody's business but their own. And if Eliot wants to fit his mouth around the stiff needy line of Quentin’s cock, work him over so slowly and thoroughly Quentin’s shaking, then he’s going to do that. 

Because life is short, and they’re both alive, and that in and of itself is worth celebrating.

__

He’d been right to guess that his birthday party plans were going to roll over into the Halloween party. 

It’s fine, Eliot doesn’t really mind. Margo and Fen aren’t arriving until the 30th, which means that he and Quentin still have the apartment to themselves on the 28th. Quentin has class in the morning, and Eliot has to make a trip to the Library, in search of some treatise about magical import taxes which kind of makes him want to pull his eyeballs out of his skull. 

But Kady’s there, and generally Eliot would rather deal with Kady than Alice, for reasons shaped a lot like a 5’8” little nerd who is distinctly present in Eliot’s bed and not in her’s. Oh, he and Alice get along fine when the need too. He’d just prefer not to need to. 

Kady, on the other hand, he had bonded with in the few short weeks before Project Rescue Quentin had really taken off. Apparently, having someone you love trapped in the Underworld was a shared life experience that only so many people could relate to. She’d even somehow managed to forgive him, for getting Q back when their original Penny seemed to be lost to them forever. 

“Happy birthday, old man,” she says with a half-cocked smile. “How’s 29 treating you?”

So far, 29 had begun half-waking up to Quentin kissing him goodbye early in the morning as he left for class. Later, waking for real, Eliot had found freshly made coffee in the pot in the kitchen and a magically warm breakfast sandwich from the cafe around the corner, resting on top of a note in Quentin’s familiar scratchy scrawl.

_I thought you’d appreciate this more than being woken up early._

_Dinner tonight, meet me by the Manhattan portal at 6._

_Happy birthday, sweetheart. I love you._

_-Q_

He’d tucked the note into his wallet. Fucking sue him, being a romantic at heart was actually pretty fucking great when you loved someone who was a romantic in practice.

“So far, so good,” he says easily, leaning on the edge of the counter between them. 

“Birthday blowjob?” Kady guesses, pulling his stupid taxation treatise up onto the counter.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Let her think that. Their tender moments still felt too personal for Eliot to share readily with the public, and as much as Eliot might have come to respect Kady, she still wasn’t family yet. Not the way Margo and Fen were to him, the way Julia was to Q.

Going to the Library always left Eliot feeling a little drained, like the literal color had been sucked out of the world, like everything felt and tasted and smell a little less real. The temptation was there to go find something that was heighten his senses, some upper magical or otherwise was that would let him forget about acid carrots and nearly dying and being chase by cannibals and his _own fucking father_. But hey, Group existed for a reason, and he had a good handful of friends in the Brooklyn area who he could reach out to now rather than doing coke in his bathroom.

This was probably growth, or something.

So he ends up getting coffee with Rena, who’s a 35 year old mother of 2 who’s drug of choice had been oxy. She’s possible his favorite other person in group, and she also happens to be a hedge witch and a lesbian. It pretty much means he can talk freely with her in a way he usually can’t, and honestly that’s what he needs right now. She also adores Q, so much that it might seem threatening if it weren’t so maternal. Instead it’s just funny, watching Quentin be vaguely confused about being mothered by a woman only eight years his senior whenever they hang out with her.

“Do you know what your boy’s planning for tonight?” Rena asks, as they settle down in rickety metal chairs outside a cafe near Prospect Park. 

Eliot figures the night’s going to end with him on his hands and knees, but he thinks she probably could do without knowing that. He doesn’t want to hear about her lesbian sexcapades any more than she wants to think about his dick. “He said dinner, that’s all I know,” Eliot shrugs, swirling his seasonal vaguely pumpkin flavored coffee around in it’s paper cup, to try and better integrate the flavoring. “It’s hard to tell with Q. It’s either going to be incredibly touching and well thought out, or just... very underwhelming. Like, pizza and beer.”

“He wouldn’t do that for your birthday,” Rena chides, like Eliot has insulted one of her actual flesh and blood children. “He may be clueless but he’s not that bad.”

“He’s not even all that clueless,” Eliot admits, because he’s _not_. Quentin, for all his tendency to be a bit of a mess, a disaster waiting to happen, a little self-absorbed on occasion... is actually a really good partner. The kind of partner who loved you for 50 fucking years, and did such a good job at it that the prospect of trying again and failing was terrifying. “Sometimes we have different priorities, but-- that’s just being different people.”

“For my last birthday, Sara took me to this little Italian place she found that actually managed to make _pasta alle vongole_ like my grandmother used to make.” Rena’s eyes go distant and far away, that happy smile she gets whenever she thinks about her girlfriend. “_And_ she got a babysitter.”

“A gold mine,” Eliot agrees with a laugh, because he _remembers_, okay, remembers birthdays in Fillory where Arielle’s cousins would take Teddy off their hands for a night. Remembers how precious it was to have nights alone with Quentin, where they could just be naked for _hours_ and no one was going to barge in and ask them to fix a problem or tell a story. How, by the next morning, they were always eager to get him back, their brilliant, funny, weird little boy. “How is your spawn?”

If you’d told Eliot three years ago that he'd be happy to listen to a friend from addiction support group talk about her kids for 30 minutes, well. He probably would have been too high to pay attention to what you were saying, anyway.

Quentin steps out of the portal to Brakebills at 5:58 that evening, wearing a nice button down and a corduroy blazer and black slacks. He looks so much like every nerd boy fantasy Eliot’s ever had that it has to be intentional, not the kind of thing Quentin would usually throw on for a Monday of classes. The sight of him, stumbling a little as he steps out into the busy street, makes fondness and longing contract hard in Eliot’s stomach. _This one, all mine_. 

“Hey,” Quentin greets as Eliot steps up to him, halfway in the process of digging through his bag for, evidently, a scarf. “Jesus, it’s cold here. Still not used to hitting that seasonal displacement every day. It wasn’t that different before fall really started.”

“Ah, yes, you’re spending your days in summery sunshine, how could I forget.”

“I’m spending my days in dusty classrooms with people who approach magic like it’s theoretical physics,” Quentin sighs, looping his scarf around his neck. The realities of finishing his degree have been grating on Quentin for months, when Eliot knows in so many ways he feels he’s moved beyond the classroom. At least he’s been able to convince the Dean to let him skip or wave almost a full years worth of courses.

“You chose this,” Eliot reminds him fondly, letting Q wind their hands together and lead him off towards some unknown destination. “Margo would happily make you a council member.”

“Because you enjoy your Fillory gig so much?” Quentin says dryly, squeezing Eliot’s hand a little to soften the blow. Eliot makes a face.

“It’s not-- that bad.” It might be better if he was actually _in Fillory _full time, but, well. Neither of them exactly fit there anymore, and Quentin has school. And Eliot has Quentin, and his Group, and their little rag tag family of mostly drop-outs.

“Uh huh.” It’s not even skeptical, Quentin knows him too well to have any doubt about Eliot’s feelings about his job, but they’re both in too good a mood to spoil it worrying about the future. Today’s about celebrating the past. 29 times around the sun. Somehow, Eliot survived through another year.

“I love you,” he says softly to Q, as they walk through Manhattan hand in hand. It’s still not as easy to say as he hopes it gets, but right now he’s feeling tender, and being open is a little easier. Quentin’s bright smile makes it worth the effort.

“You don’t even know where we’re going yet,” Quentin teases, squeezing Eliot’s hand in his. 

Where their going ends up being, of all places, a sushi restaurant. It’s unexpected, and unexpectedly perfect, something completely unlike anything he could get in Fillory or make himself. The place is small, intimate and tasteful, the kind of place that is expensive not because it’s lavish but because it’s personal. Quentin gives his name at the door and they’re shown to a little nook near the counter, where they can watch their food being prepared, but still have the illusion of privacy. 

“How far in advance did you have to make a reservation here?” Eliot asks, impressed, feeling honestly a little spoiled. It is, like he’d said to Rena, impressively well thought out, a perfect date. Eliot’s been meaning to get sushi for weeks, hadn’t even really noticed Q gently steering him away from it for other options.

“That’s for me to know,” Q says loftily, but he’s smiling, pleased with Eliot’s reaction. He reaches into his bag and pulls out an envelope. “This is from Julia. She says happy birthday, and she can’t wait to see you on Friday. Apparently her costume is a reference you’ll understand.”

Intriguing. About the only referenceable thing Julia and Eliot had in common that Quentin wasn’t also in on was 80s rom coms. “How is Our Lady?”

“She’s fine. Still having a hard time with getting magic to do what she wants reliably, which I know is driving her crazy.” Quentin shrugs, pausing to bow his head in thanks to the waiter who had brought them over some sake. “She’s miles ahead of us in theory, so the fact that she can’t just-- access the power reliably is making her nuts. But she’s also kind of the happiest I’ve ever seen her, so.”

Eliot slips open the card, a ridiculously tact grocery store card feature several shirtless men which Eliot appreciates ironically, and contains three tickets to the Met with a note that says _‘any bets on who can be a bigger art snob, you, me or Q?’_

Eliot grins, tucking the card into the inside pocket of his blazer. He looks forward to convincing them both to cut class someday in the future, so they can go without having to fight off the crowds. “I’ll see her on Friday, but thank her for me?”

“I will. You could email her, though. She keeps complaining that she feels cut off from the outside world.”

“Isn’t she fucking a traveler?”

“Yes, well. He still doesn’t like being treated like an uber service, even by her.” The pinched face Q makes says enough about his feelings regarding 23’s deepening presence in his life, and it makes Eliot laugh, feeling bright and loose and happy.

Dinner is excellent. It’s beyond excellent, really, amazing food and wonderful atmosphere, and Quentin’s attention, his care, his entire big brain and bigger heart all focused on Eliot. They hold hands on the table, and steal bits of each other’s food, split some green tea ice cream at the end of the meal even though it’s probably 50 degrees outside and they’re going to be freezing once they leave. 

“Thank you for this,” Eliot murmurs, arms around Quentin’s chest, nose in his hair as they stand outside waiting for their Uber to arrive. There’d been a debate about portaling back to Brooklyn, but it seemed like more effort to find a place they could set up the spell unseen than was worth it, in the long run. Plus, Eliot couldn’t fault the intimacy of the ride, the anticipation. Just holding Q close in the chilly night air, breathing his smell, feeling his warmth... it was enough to make Eliot’s blood run a little hotter.

“Of course,” Q says softly, tipping his head back onto Eliot’s shoulder so he can smile up at him. Eliot kisses the corner of his mouth softly, feeling a dimple bloom to life under his lips. _Sweet, precious thing_. 

Quentin scoots into the middle seat of the car, settling with his head tucked into Eliot’s shoulder as they head for the bridge and the little bubble of home they’re carving into the world.

“When’s the last time you got to celebrate your birthday?” Quentin asks softly, so the driver won’t have to overhear their weird magician bullshit. His hand has settled warmly on Eliot’s thigh, and Eliot lets that anticipation ratchet up a little tighter. “Was it my first year at Brakebills?”

Eliot hums thoughtfully. “Margo did something for me the following year, while we were in Fillory. I think you were there? It was after Alice, though, so-”

“I was a drunk asshole?”

“And I was engaged to another man,” Eliot agrees, amused. “The next two years were-”

“Bad,” Quentin fills in softly, because one had been in the middle of the Key Quest and the other had been- not Eliot in charge of his body. 

God, they’ve slogged through so much shit to get here. No wonder they’re both in therapy, of one kind or another. Eliot kisses the top of Quentin’s head, feels Q’s hand tighten briefly on his thigh. 29 years old. Somehow he’d never really thought he’d live this long. _Thank you for getting me here_, he wants to say, and doesn’t know how. Words are so fucking hard, and he’s so bad at them. It’s easier to act on love, to do things for Q, prove devotion every day. God, how the fuck do you thank someone enough for everything Quentin’s done for and given for and fought for him? When his love for Eliot had cost him his _life_?

When he’d loved Eliot enough to fight his way back?

Quentin’s lips brush against his neck, and it’s not until that moment that Eliot realizes his breathing’s gone a little funny, eyes wet. He makes himself relax, blinking, turn into Quentin’s knowing look with a kiss. 

They tip their driver well, because they spend the last 5 minutes of the ride lowkey making out in the backseat. Well, whatever, it’s Eliot’s fucking birthday. Fight him.

Q gets him by the lapels of his jacket as soon as they’re inside the apartment, tugging Eliot down while he pushes up on his toes. For as demanding as he’s being, he’s still open and sweet, going where Eliot leads both metaphorically and physically as Eliot backs him up towards the bedroom.

“Still down to fuck me?” Eliot asks, Quentin’s breath hot against his mouth as Q keeps pushing up to him, again and again. It makes Quentin laugh, hands still gripping Eliot’s jacket. 

“Sweetheart, I have been thinking about this _all day_,” Quentin says, using his grip on Eliot’s jacket to start working it down his shoulders. “I have never been more ready to fuck anyone in my _whole life_.”

It takes them forever to get out of their clothes, mostly because they can’t stop _kissing_ long enough to make it happen. Peeling Quentin out of his academic drag is a particular fantasy of Eliot’s that he takes the time to indulge, devesting him of blazer and button down and then getting thoroughly distracted kissing and biting at his soft fuzzy belly, until he starts to giggle and pushes Eliot away.

“Focus,” Quentin scolds, then goes completely against his own instructions by getting distracted by _Eliot’s_ naked chest, his ribs, the knot of healed scar tissue in the side of his torso. The naked hunger on his face makes Eliot feel flushed, his skin hot and tight and sensitive. He’s used to people finding him objectively attractive, has used and played on that fact for maybe longer than was exactly healthy for him.

He’s not used to the _openness_ of Quentin’s desire, the way it mixes with affection so easily, not yet. It’s a hell of a thing, to feel so thoroughly and completely wanted exactly as you are. All parts of you. 

“C’mere,” he breathes out, once Quentin gets him out of his pants and underwear, tumbling them back onto the bed with a giggle, rearranging them until they settle with Quentin’s perfect little weight tucked up between Eliot’s spread thighs. Fuck, he’s feeling it already, excitement and desire mixing in his blood, sparkling like carbonation. God, he’s almost surprised at himself for how much he wants this. 

“Hi,” Quentin murmurs, braced up over Eliot, dorky smile on his face as he ducks down for another kiss, coaxes Eliot’s tongue into his mouth so he can suck on it. Eliot shivers, thighs tightening eagerly around Quentin’s hips, holding him in place. 

“God,” Eliot breathes, when they break apart, then laughs, a little stunned, as Quentin rocks their bodies together, hard cock dragging against Eliot’s in a pantomime of fucking. “God, Q, you’re going to fucking wreck me.”

“I hope so,” Quentin half-laughs, then he’s wriggling away, stretching towards the bedside table so he can get ahold of the half-full bottle of lube. Eliot pets at his side and watches his face, heartbeat fast and excited in his chest. 

Q sits back on his heels between Eliot’s legs, hair disheveled and chest rising and falling with his own excited breathes. He catches Eliot watching him and grins, bright and a little nervous, but– eager. Eliot loves him so fucking much.

“Leg bent?”Quentin suggest, guiding one of Eliot’s legs up so he’s– spread open, Jesus. Eliot nods, mutely, and Quentin, fucking sweet kind little Q, nuzzles his nose against Eliot’s knee, kissing there fondly as he slicks his fingers up. It’s slick and cool, the first brush against Eliot’s rim, and him breathes out carefully, bears down against the pressure as Quentin carefully slides the first finger in. It’s a stretch, but it’s not uncomfortable, and Quentin’s patient, giving Eliot all the time he needs to get used to one finger before moving on to two.

This is territory they’ve treaded before, fingers inside during blowjobs. Eliot enjoys a little prostate play as much as the next sexually adventurous young man, and Quentin has _wonderful_ hands as far as Eliot is concerned. Sturdy, solid hands with thick fingers and the dexterity of a sleight of hand master, of a Magician. 

“Still with me?” Quentin asks, lips brushing against Eliot’s bent up knee. The tickle of it makes him shiver, makes him clench down where he’s stretched open, where Q’s clever fingers are crooking just right. 

“Yeah, baby. That feels nice,” Eliot sighs, eyes fluttering shut. It does, it really does, there’s a ping of excitement growing in Eliot’s stomach. The peeled-open, raw feeling that had started in the car ride home is only stronger now, the feeling of being seen. Being _known_.

“Do you– Will you be able to stay hard, during this?” Quentin asks gently, cheek rubbing against Eliot’s skin. 

“Usually.” It’s sweet of Q to ask, belies a little more knowledge or experience than Eliot would usually give him credit for, since he himself gets hard and stays hard every time he gets anything inside him. But he’s sweet, and kind, and determined and Eliot feels– spoiled. It’s a hell of a thing, to be the focus of Quentin’s attention like this. “I’m hard right now.”

“Mmm, yes, I can see that,” Quentin agrees, then he’s shifting, leaning forward to nuzzle at Eliot’s cock, like he’s saying hello to it. A soft flicker of velvet tongue, and Eliot sighs as pleasure sparkles up his spine, throbs deep inside as Quentin finger fucks him slowly. 

Eliot groans, spine arching almost subconsciously, as Quentin licks his way down the shaft of Eliot’s cock to mouth at his balls. It’s a tight, hot, good feeling, and Eliot reaches down for him, slides his fingers into Quentin’s soft hair. Q hums, happy as ever for guidance, to be held where Eliot wants him. And if that meant he was sucking gently on Eliot’s balls when the third finger slipped in, well. All the better, really.

_Fuck_. It felt fucking incredible. Why didn’t they do this more?

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Eliot accuses, which makes Quentin laugh, vibrations against Eliot’s most sensitive places. 

“Yeah, that’s on me, sure,” he teases, sweet hot mouth against the stretch of skin behind Eliot’s balls. He presses his tongue there firmly, crooking his fingers inside just right at the same moment, and it’s like fireworks, he’s got Eliot’s prostate on boths sides and is just-- fucking playing him, like a musical instrament, like a spell. Precise and dangerous.

“_Q_,” Eliot moans, and then swears, fingers going tight in Quentin’s hair as his cock leaks against his belly, wet and wanting. “Fuck, baby, if you keep doing that I’m going to come before you even get in me.”

"Can't have that," Quentin agrees, then he's pulling back, sitting back up on his knees. He's such a pretty picture like this, mouth red and wet, pink flush spreading down his cheeks and neck to the top of chest, heaving with the effort of his excitement. His cock is hard, eager, standing up between his spread knees, and looking at it makes hunger twist in Eliot's stomach. He _knows_ that cock, how it fits in his hand, in his mouth. All of a sudden he can not wait to feel it fit inside his ass, perfect size for this, just enough to fit in snug without making Eliot feel split in half. 

Reaching forward, Eliot gets his hand down over Quentin's cock, hot and velvety, twitching excitedly under Eliot's touch. Q's eyes go wide and intense, free hand tightening on Eliot's leg. "C'mon, stop teasing me, Coldwater."

"Not teasing," Quentin pants out, eyes sliding shut as Eliot rubs his thumb at the sweet spot under the head of Quentin’s dick. Q's fingers are still moving inside him, and Eliot bears back against them, trying to chase the feeling of it. He wants _more. _"I just- Want it to be good for you."

That peeled open, raw feeling, sharply tender and achy, spreads again through Eliot's chest. Sweet, kind, gentle Q. "It's already good for me," Eliot promises, letting go of Q's cock so he can take his waist in both hands, rub his thumbs into Quentin’s hip bones. "C'mon, let me up so I can turn over."

Doubt flickers across Quentin face, writing itself into the corners of his eyes, the downturn of his pretty mouth. "If that's what– if that’s how it's best for you, we can do that. But I'd rather be able to see your face. I want to be able to kiss you."

"Oh," Eliot breathes, a little wrong footed for a heart beat. Which he shouldn't be, _he shouldn't be, _they've fucked in a dozen different ways the other way around, Quentin on his back and on his side and on his belly, nestled to sit in Eliot's lap to kiss hungrily, or tucked into him back to chest. Of course Eliot could get fucked on his back. 

He– hasn't, before. 

"Nevermind, we can-" Quentin starts, a flood of nervous babble building in him, and Eliot pushes up onto his hands to kiss him quiet. It's an awkward position, straining his stomach in a way that tugs on the freshly healed wound a little and makes Quentin’s fingers feel _huge_ inside him. But it succeeds in stopping Quentin’s anxiety spiral, and kissing him is just- always amazing. 

Yeah, okay, Eliot can see the appeal of being able to keep doing this while they fuck. "There's two of us in this bed, baby," Eliot reminds him, dropping back into his elbows to release the pinch in his stomach. "What you want matters as much as what I want."

"I want to be able to see you," Quentin repeats, a little shy, and Eliot smiles at him, indescribably fond.

"Then come here." It's a little playful, a little bit of a tease, but it gets Quentin smiling again. Eliot tugs him up, and it makes his fingers slip out, leaving behind a familiar weird emptiness. Eliot doesn't have long to focus on it, though, when Quentin's settling between his spread thighs, ducking his head to press kisses into the center of Eliot's chest, nuzzle his face into the hair there. It catches on his stubble, pinging excitement through Eliot's stomach. For all he may be slight and pretty, there's so many things about Quentin’s that are so appealingly masculine. His rough cheeks and hairy arms, strong shoulders, the solid line of his cock nudging up behind Eliot's balls. 

God, Eliot _wants_ him.

There's a moment of awkward fumbling, dissolving into laughter as Quentin gets his cock lined up, braced on one arm near Eliot's shoulders. Quentin’s dorky giggle is one of Eliot's absolute favorite sounds, because it means he’s happy, genuinely happy. God, had sex be this _fun _before Q?

Then Quentin gets himself lined up right, and there’s no strain, no discomfort to the stretch, just the weird _pop_ feeling and the _slide_.

“Oh,” Eliot breathes, startled, a little, somehow, as Quentin sinks into him. Gravity's doing most of the work, but it’s a slick, easy glide in, and Eliot’s back arches a little despite himself. _God_, _it feels_\-- has it always felt like this? His thighs tighten around Quentin’s waist instinctively, trying to keep him in, in, _in_ as he rocks a little, fighting his body’s instinct just to _fuck_.

“Good ‘oh’?” Q’s voice is strained, face a pinch of concentration, and Eliot--

Grins. Laughs. 

“Fuck yeah, good ‘oh’. You fit just right.”

Quentin’s breath punches out of him, head dropping down to rest with his forehead against Eliot’s clavicle. “I’m gonna move now,” he mumbles into Eliot’s skin, then does just that.

It’s a long drag out, and then the unmistakable _fuck_ of pushing back in, punching Eliot’s breath out of him. His hands fly up to Quentin automatically, one gripping his ribs, the other sliding through his hair to pet the back of his neck as he starts a rhythm, steady and deep. 

“_Q_,” Eliot pants, then cries out a little surprised “_Ah!”_ as Quentin’s cock drags over his prostate. A little burst of intense pleasure in the otherwise low slow burning goodness that was Quentin’s cock dragging on his rim, Quentin’s fuzzy belly rubbing his hard cock.

Ever responsive to positive reinforcement, Quentin shifts until the angle changes, dragging his cock just right inside Eliot on every other thrust. It did, unfortunately, make kissing virtually impossible, given the difference in their height. Q seems determined to make the best of it, though, lips and teeth dragging over Eliot’s shoulders and chest.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” Eliot bites out, head rolling back helplessly as Quentin gets the angle really right for a handeful of heartbeats, drag after drag of pleasure errupting inside him. His hand is winding tight in Quentin’s hair of its own accord, and he’d feel bad about that except he _knows_ Q. Knows he likes it. 

“El, sweetheart. Please,” Quentin pants, and when Eliot forces his eyes open, Quentin’s straining up towards him, face tipped up for a kiss. If Eliot pushes up to his elbows, he can just, just reach. It’s a sloppy, messy kiss, but it seems to satisfy something Quentin needs because he pulls back with a renewed determination, hands planting firmly on the bed and speeding up.

“_Christ, fuck, oh fuck, Q.”_ It’s so fucking good, gets even better when Eliot pushes one hand up to brace against the headboard behind him, rocking back in time with the rhythm of Quentin’s thrusts.

“How are you so good at this?” Quentin asks, sounding genuinely mistified, and Eliot can’t help but laugh again, feeling delighted, loved, _seen_.

The drag of Quentin’s stomach against Eliot’s cock is nice, but it’s not enough, not quite, not when he’s body’s not used to taking pleasure this way. Getting his hand on himself means having to let go of Q, though, and Eliot doesn’t _want_ to do that. Puts it off for as long as possible, until the burn of pleasure hits a plateau that can’t go any further and frustration boils up. Then he has to let go of Quentin’s silky hair, wriggling his hand down between their bodies to get ahold of his own cock.

Eliot comes first, but only just. An explosion of pleasure and the feeling of having something to clench down on, ride back on bowls him over so much that he almost misses it when Q comes. The surprised look on his face, like it’s snuck up on him completely, makes the desperate fondness curling in Eliot’s chest glows brightly as Quentin collapses down onto him.

“Hey,” Eliot breathes, cupping both hands around Quentin’s face, heedless of the mess as he coxes Q to look up at him. “Hey, you. I love you.”

Quentin, still breathless and dazed looking, makes a sound of agreement, head heavy in Eliot’s hands. “Love you,” he agrees, then tips his head forward with a groan, forehead against the dip in Eliot’s collarbones. “Fuck. I think I just fucked my own brains out.”

It’s- it’s such a dorky, ridiculous, _Quentin_ thing to say that this time when Eliot starts laughing it doesn’t seem to want to stop. He rolls them onto their sides, and Quentin’s softening cock slips out easily, leaving a trail of sticky come to add to the mess between them. Eliot doesn’t care, doesn’t _give a shit_, can’t stop laughing and trying to kiss Quentin through the laughter.

Soon, they’ll shower, together even though that never quite works, kissing in the steam while Eliot complains that the showerhead is too low. They’ll tangle up in bed and Quentin will teach Eliot some new tuts from class, fingers moving fluidly between his own. Quentin will go to therapy on Tuesday afternoon and come home brittle and red nosed, and Eliot will cook something homey and comforting, easy to get down. Eliot will go to Group Wednesday night, and get coffee with Q and one of his classmates Thursday morning. Friday, they’ll pile into Kady’s penthouse and Eliot will bask in the glory of everyone he loves celebrating him (“and, you know, the holiday-” “Shut up, Coldwater,”) for a whole night.

But for now, Quentin’s fingers curl between them, the backs of his knuckles brushing the tender stretch of Eliot’s throat as he murmurs “Happy Birthday, my love,” against Eliot’s lips.

It feels kind of too good to be true, but Eliot will be damned if he lets it slip away again. 

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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